Duchess of Spades
by Lady Eleanor Boleyn
Summary: Challenge Response. Summary will be updated after big Reveal!


Narcissa was five days old when Druella realised what price she'd have to pay for her husband agreeing to take in Siofra's daughter in place of their own short-lived Capella.

Cygnus was dandling the child in his arms – the first time he'd held her since she'd come to live with them – when he suddenly spoke.

"She's got a delicate beauty. I only hope she isn't too frail for the Moscow climate."

"Moscow?!" Druella couldn't hide her shock. Cygnus glanced at her, face blank.

"Of course Moscow. The Blacks and the Lazarovs have had an alliance for generations. Narcissa will marry one of their sons and secure it, just as my cousin Maristela did."

"But-" Druella began, then stopped at the look on her husband's face.

"You brought this child into our family, Druella. Now kindly allow me to decide what I am going to do with her."

Cygnus paused, touching the baby's cheek for an instant, "She'll be a Grand Duchess, one of the most powerful women in Wizarding Europe. You should be pleased."

Druella forced herself to nod, even though her heart was breaking. She should have known Cygnus wouldn't take the child in without wanting something for it. She should have known.

Cygnus placed the baby back in her crib, then strode to the door. All of a sudden, he spoke again.

"Oh and Druella? Don't even think trying to go behind my back and arrange another marriage for Narcissa. We both know that a single word from me could ruin you and your sister both."

He strode out of the room without looking back.

* * *

Narcissa was five when her father called her into his study and showed her a painting of a boy in a sailor suit with brown hair and kind brown eyes. The boy was a little older than her, but he was smiling and looked nice. When she said so, Papa chuckled and pulled her on to his lap.

"I'm glad you think so, Narcissa," he said, "Because you're going to marry him."

"Marry him?" In her young brain, the words made no sense at all.

"Yes. It's Faddei Lazarov, the second son of the Tsar of Russia. My family have had an alliance with his for generations and soon it'll be your turn."

"I see," Narcissa answered, though she didn't, quite. She put her head on one side, "Papa?"

"Yes?"

"What's a Tsar?"

"A Tsar is their version of a King. And their Princes are called Grand Dukes, so Faddei is a Grand Duke."

Narcissa wasn't paying attention to any of that. Her eyes were round. "Does that mean...I'll be a – a Princess?"

Cygnus nodded, "But," he warned, before she could deafen him with a squeal of joy, "You're not to tell anyone, is that clear? It's not quite final yet, and I want to keep it a secret till you're older, understand?"

"Yes, Papa."

"Black Honour?" Cygnus frowned down at his youngest who nodded eagerly, "Black Honour, Papa, Black Honour."

Pleased, he patted her shoulder, "Good girl. Run off and play then, my little Grand Duchess. My little Duchess of Spades."

For a split-second, Narcissa considered pouting. She never got to spend time with Papa on her own and anyway, she wanted to hear more about Faddei. But Papa had already tipped her off his lap and put the portrait away with a flick of his wand, and anyway, Papa never gave in to tantrums. That was Mama.

Wait, Mama. Maybe Mama knew more about Faddei.

Without another word, Narcissa turned and ran off in search of her mother.

* * *

She was ten when they met for the first time. Faddei kissed her hand and told her he was very pleased to meet her. She curtsied back, returning the greeting, as protocol demanded, "The Pleasure is mine, Your Imperial Highness."

However, it very quickly became clear that Faddei's English was limited to formal greetings, and, as her Russian was non-existent, they were forced to converse in what little schoolroom French they had bothered to pick up from their tutors and governess respectively.

Which meant the afternoon they spent together touring London was far from the romantic day Narcissa had dreamed it would be. Instead, it was stilted and difficult.

Not that she ever told her father. At ten years old, she was old enough to know that he was expecting her to do her duty by the Blacks and keep the alliance with the Lazarovs alive and well. She had to do it, and what's more, she had to do it with a smile on her face.

He never asked anyway. She came back from Hyde Park with Faddei's flower in her hair and that was all he cared about.

* * *

At fifteen, the age of legal womanhood in Wizarding Russia, Narcissa was sent to Russia, to finish her education under the careful eye of the Tsarina, her father's cousin Maristela. Faddei was seventeen by then, and Narcissa, wide-eyed and impressionable, didn't think she'd ever seen a more handsome young man. When he kissed her hand and looked up at her with a sparkle in his eyes, her heart started racing, and when he brushed her cheek with his full lips and breathed mething she didn't understand, yet later translated as, _"You grow ever more beautiful, my little Anfisa,"_ she couldn't help blushing scarlet.

She spent more and more time with him as the months passed and conversing with him grew ever easier as both her Russian and her French improved. At last, one day about a year after she had come to Russia, she dared ask him the biggest question that had been bothering her.

"_Why do you call me Anfisa? My name's Narcissa, not Anfisa."_

"_I know, sweet one. I know. But we don't have the name Narcissa in Russian. Anfisa means flower. It was the closest I could make the Court understand."_

"_So I'll be Anfisa when I become your wife?"_

Her voice cracked; she had to fight back tears. She was only sixteen, after all. Sixteen and already thousands of miles away from her father and mother and sisters. Her name was one of the few links she still had with her past. and now Faddei was telling her she couldn't even keep that.

"_Anfisa, darling?"_ he put his hand out to her, but she pulled back, snarling at him.

"Don't call me that. It's not my name! It's not! And it never will be!"

He couldn't understand the words – his English had never been as good as her French or even her Russian – but he understood her tone. He understood the way she spun on her heel and fled away from him, wrenching her skirts up out of the way as she ran. He understood the sound of her tortured sobs as the wind bore the proof of her loss of self-control back to him.

* * *

She had to become accustomed to it, though. She had to. With no other choice, she had to become accustomed to answering to Anfisa. And when, the year she was twenty, she finally married Faddei in a glittering double ceremony alongside his older brother Yakob and his bride the French Countess, Natalie, (or Natalia, as she would now be known), Bellamy, she had to admit that there was a certain ring to "Her Imperial Highness the Grand Duchess Anfisa Lazarov".

She took her new husband's hand to walk down the aisle beside him and smiled gently, the restrained half-smile her new role demanded of her.

As they went out into the rapidly darkening dusk, she offered a quick prayer up to the heavens for the soul of her father Cygnus. He had died a year ago, before he could see all his plans come to fruition, but she knew he'd be proud of her if he could see her now. She was his own little Grand Duchess just the way he'd always wanted.

She was a Grand Duchess, but she was still a Black. Her heart was still black, for all she was known as _flower._ She would never be anything less than a Black Grand Duchess.

Than a Duchess of Spades.


End file.
